It didn’t seem to promise much when I first saw it. Sherman took me to a back street dealer in Mutley Plain on his Montjuic, an interesting experience in itself. We inquired about cheap bikes, please. Dear old Tom took us into his garage and proudly displayed a pile of wrecks. In the corner lurked a Honda. It'll be great when it’s done up, said he, but you can have it, as seen, for two hundred.
After ritual guffaws, I gave him a ton and he invited me to take it elsewhere for its next MOT, due in a month. As seen was to be believed. Lights were present but emitted a glow just sufficient to attract only the most curious of passing moths. Handlebars were enormous cow horns. The tank was sprayed silver and Isopon. The seat was designer masking tape. Ugly she was.
The road test was the trip home. Tom’s only concession to business ethics was to get her going - by pushing. The controls fell easily to hand as it lurched off into the gathering gloom of a Plymouthian rush hour. It was just as well that speed was restricted by the traffic for the tyres were a combination of rear Pneumat and a slick version of a knobbly. Their combined effect on instability was only exceeded by the riding position. The cow horns forced the luckless pilot to sit on what laughingly passed as the pillion seat. Knees grasped the very back of the tank on a timeshare basis. A rum affair which allowed the singular experience of 50mph wheelies on a hopeless tyre later found to contain less than 10psi.
Safely back at Chateau Speedwell, various other delivery faults were noticed. There were no air or oil filters. The swinging arm didn’t and the fork gaiters were the sole form of front suspension. But apart from that I was laughing, if only because Sherman’s Italian masterpiece had to be towed home after one of its traditional fusebox festivals.
I replaced the tyres with used Michelin trials. The bars were swapped with those from next doors youngest’s push-bike and proved a resounding success for all concerned. The speedo was given a cable but I maintain that the only time it was accurate was when stopped. An air filter was constructed from a stocking (sorry dear) and as the motor seemed happy to recycle its own swarf no oil filter was added to avoid over-complication.
In this form the XL passed 3 MOTs, survived four years of abuse and pushed its recorded mileage up from 17500 to nearly 32000. Its engine required no routine servicing. Only when overcome by guilt would this mechanical rock-ape peer into its bowels. I adjusted the tappets once following instructions culled from an old Motorcycle Mechanics (remember them?). It appeared to make no difference to the power band or character of the plot, which can best be described as basic.
Running costs? Oil was changed annually (whether it needed it or not). Parts were either bodged or used. The most expensive by far were the tyres which were replaced all too often because of the demonic riding style employed. The front needed three used covers, the rear five. Insurance and tax were cheap necessities and the only other recurring expense was the MOT. I got this down to a fine art, Step one, locate a dealer away from home with the blue sign. Next, enter his emporium fawning interest in the most obvious rip-off bike he’s got on show. Third, tell him you want to buy it but must sell yours first. Fourth, show him the rat to dissuade him from offering trade-in. Fifth, say that you think you know a friend who wants it to ride mainly on a farm but has asked you to get it MOT ’d first. Sixth, if the dealer hesitates in granting you an MOT (which some of the less dishonest ones will) quickly ask him if he can do finance on the deal - that carrot is invariably irresistible. Seventh, pay your test fee and ride into the wild blue yonder clutching the certificate. Eighth, never, ever, break down near that dealers shop.
The XL never did break down. Anywhere. It was most in its element out running along vast tracts of Dartmoor’s heritage. Not because it was a good off road bike - with knackered suspension and a top heavy frame it was pretty average - but because of its rugged expendability. I treated it with a contempt that changed to total respect. Even when I inadvertently sent it tumbling down a cliff and it shed brake, clutch and gear levers in the process, it started first push (the kickstart departed very early in its career). Truly, it was an amazing machine.
But even old soldiers peg out in the end. This one did too. Last summer may have been a cool one but Devon’s beaches were not a bad place to be. Owing to diversions the description of which would be better found in Forum, I quite forgot about the time - and the tide. We emerged from the cove to find the XL tank deep in briny. As I plunged in to rescue it a wave swamped the bike. It drowned a horrible death and I suppose, for a moment, I wish I had used something more substantial in the inlet (of the motorcycle, you horrible person).
Would I buy another. Bloody oath I would. It proved the UMG philosophy that ace biking can be had for nearly nothing given a little flair for haggle, hustle and bodge. Now, does anyone have an XT500 they'd swap a hundred notes for?
Harry Speedwell